We live in a time and an age when whatever is done in secret soon enough finds its way to the interwebs for the public's voracious consumption. We also live in a time and an age where people love to humiliate and shame others for their private proclivities. Some of the celebrities that had these photos-gone-awry scandals had trusted and let themselves be photographed by significant others with the understanding that it was "for our eyes only" only to be later betrayed for a quick buck.
Other celebrities (like High Lord Twink Bieber) were photographed against their will and without their permission/consent and therefore had their rights violated by the press.
Now, I will not say that I'm a high-ranking celebrity (by any means) but in some circles I (and my homoerotic wrestling ego) are somewhat known-
...I'm a fucking star! I'm-
Now, Drake, I wouldn't quite go THAT far...
Why not?! People watch the videos...they get hard...they jerkoff... I'm a homoerotic wrestling STAR as well as the STAR of numerous jerkoff fantasies!
I'm just saying that we're not, like, huge like Aryx Quinn...
THAT bitch...
Brad Rochelle...
Mmm...
Kid Karisma.. ...double mmm...
Alexi Adamov...waaaatch it, now...
I'm just stating facts... everybody's a star in their own right...
Oh staaaahp that silly "we were all born superstars" Lady Gaga bullshit. This is all about me! People wouldn't give a flying FUCK if it were just you! I make you interesting! I make people give a single shit about what you have to say. I only let you speak more because you're the more eloquent and lazy of us two...I do all the heavy lifting and entertaining, so, continue...please...wow me...US...with your verbosity! *eye roll*
I highly doubt you'll have much to say when you see where and why I'm going with this today...
We'll see about that...
So...anyways, before I was so RUDELY interrupted...
YURE fine!
Some people have their private photos released by a former loved and trusted one for the sake of a pretty penny and others have them forcibly taken and exposed by a member of the press for public slut shaming . Our dear friend Drake was the victim of this very heinous, distasteful crime a little more than a year ago by the latter.
Oh THIS shit!
Nothing hurts more to a host than to be so disrespected by his guest. I wined and dined him and he repaid us with nothing but disrespect and much chest beating and trash talking.
It's taken a long time (as you know, faithful reader) and a lot of therapy to get over the indignity we suffered at the hands of someone we thought we could trust...
He's talking about this headless torso of a "writer" by the name of Bard...the blogger... I'll take it from here D2...
...sigh...
I blame D2 for a lot of our shortcomings because, you know, I'm kind of perfect. I'm the part of him that makes him go out and get what we want and deserve.
He was a little too nice and deferential to our guest by letting him indulge in his fantasies in seeing the ring and the villa in which so many of his homoerotic fantasies had been brought to life. I just wanted to smack Bard around a bit to show him his place. He was here to fawn over me, to shower me with the praise that I so rightly deserve... I WAS the celebrity out of the two of us anyways.
One fantasy of his I knew that hadn't been realized was to get tossed around the ring by a real-life, flesh and blood BGEast wrestler.
And tossed around he WAS!
I pasted that dude from ring post to ring post. I toured his hot little body with my steel-trap thighs that I know that he's been panting at and stroking over ever since I stepped on the scene.
I loved rubbing his head as I watched his screwed-up-in-pain face turn red as he snuffled in my bulge like a pig rooting through a trough.
I loved feeling his hands paw and pull feebly at my thighs as they crushed his skull, threatening to crack it like a nut.
I giggled as he panted and gasped for breath as I crushed my legs around his ribcage, forcing the air from his pathetic lungs.
I'm a kind host...this is what he wanted...this is what he got.
If you take a look at his blog then you'll see that he has his own account of what happened but, since it's his blog, he's spun what happened in our encounter in a light that, though slightly favorable to me at first descends more into fiction as it progresses.
The truth of the matter is this...we both lost count of exactly how many times he submitted to me, how many times he cried out in pain and begged for mercy. I DID indeed break free of his clumsily applied cradle.
He found himself trapped in the corner as I punched and stomped and pounded him into the turnbuckle. I showed him MERCY by letting him have a water break. I mean, he IS a bit older, so he got winded a bit quicker. I wore him OUT, boys and girls. We were covered in each other's sweat and he was covered with the stink of defeat.
After what felt like his 248th submission to me I was starting to feel the effects of the expenditure of energy that it had cost to put this blogger-bitch through the ringer of a BGEast-lite match that I dropped his body in a heap to the mat and strolled to the corner to recoup and get a breath.
That's when the coward attacked from behind.
HE HIT ME WITH A FUCKING WATER BOTTLE!!
...snickers...
YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP, D2! You know those fucking Aquafina bottles are thicker than a motherfucker. This wasn't one of those empty crinkly bottles from Tanisha Streams. This was a half full, thick ass 1-liter bottle of Aquafina!
It threw me for a loop. I thought the motherfucker was done, but no, with that cheap shot he exposed himself for the dirty, cheating bastard he was.
I grunted and rubbed my skull, and turned to face him and he splashed more water in my face and kicked me in the hip which drove me backfirst into the turnbuckle. I doubled up and stumbled forward only to be met with his own formidable thighs. He wrapped his arms around my waist, hoisted me up, and executed a stiff, sloppy piledriver that knocked me silly and probably could have broken my neck.
He dragged me up and tossed me into the corner, where I slumped to a sitting position. I lay there gasping, my world spinning, wondering just what fucking hit me as my head rested on the lower turnbuckle. That's when he pressed his sole against my throat and strangled me to near unconsciousness as I thrashed and gasped for air.
After a while he released me and I curled up, coughing and retching on the mat and then...I faceplanted as he snagged my ankle and dragged me midring, the canvas ripping out more than a few chest hairs on the way. From there he mounted me, his huge throbbing erection pressing between my ass cheeks and wrapped those big blogger biceps around my neck and head in a choking sleeper and yanked me up a bit in a modified camel so I was forced to stare at myself in the mirror as he choked me out.
Had there been a fucking ref he would have been disqualified and the match would have been over, it wouldn't have gotten to this point...I would have won.
I stared into my own eyes and his laughing face in the mirror's reflection. I don't know how long it was that I woke up later midring, the lights were darker than I remembered. It was quieter. I coughed...and panicked. I couldn't breathe! I was smothering. I gagged...I had...lycra mouth? Somehow, my pink trunks that earned me my win against Ty Alexander were in my mouth.
I rolled out of the ring and stumbled around the complex, looking for our guest when I saw a folded up piece of paper on the lobby table.
It read:
Thanks for the match, jobber boy. It was truly a pleasure
to see everything. It was even more of a pleasure putting
one of Kid Leopard's boys down for the count as well as
making him wait on me hand and foot. I told you so, sweet
jobber.
- Bard
P.S.
Be a good boy and clean up the mats
before you leave
I crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket angrily.
I honestly didn't know what had transpired until a few weeks later...there were pictures of me all over Bard's blog all Weekend at Bernie's...strung up in the ropes, hung in a tree of woe...his foot on my unconscious body as if he'd utterly trounced and owned me and then, for the next-to-last
humiliation, he stuffed my own trunks in my mouth and snapped pictures of me in such compromising positions.
I called him, I texted him, I e-mailed him, the bitch didn't answer!
It took a while but he responded to me all cocky and haughty as if he had just pulled off the upset of the century. Though I quickly reminded him exactly of what transpired in the ring...his tears, the begging...the mercy I showed him before he repaid my kindness with treachery...
Not long after these events, there was a glowing review of my match with Jake Lowe (which won sexiest match of the year, by the way) and I was named Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month. He had tried to soothe my battered ego by giving me the highest honor on his blog (A/K/A he tried to hold back the tide of anger that his actions had raised). As if. Flattery only gets you so far with Drake Marcos.
The blogger bitch knew he had fucked up. He knew he had gotten very, very lucky with that cheap shot and that if he had fought with HONOR that that match belonged to me. He knew (and still does) that I'm the better man. Wrestler>Blogger, every damn time. I'm trained in this shit, he's not.
But guess what, Bard? Next time you won't be so fortunate. It will be your stripped, beaten ass all over the net. An eye for eye...tit for tat...quid pro quo. This wrong needs righted.
So what do you say? Drake v. Bard 2?
Drake's hungry.
Drake wants revenge.
